


The Natural and The Divine

by htbthomas



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV God, POV Multiple, Post-Canon Fix-It, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21871639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: Sometimes a fox is just a fox. Other times...
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 223
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Natural and The Divine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

> Thank you for beta help from feroxargentea, hellabaloo and ictus. ♥

"It'll pass," the priest says.

Maybe it will for her, but for him? Likely not. See those eyes? He's remembering every single kiss, every touch, the way she moaned when he kissed her just...there. He's saying it because he's hoping _his_ feelings will pass.

God sighs. Right now He just wants to say to Hell with free will, and smash their two faces together as much as possible, whether they admit to wanting it or not. But really, what's the point of that? An Almighty Being has to have a bit of fun seeing what they'll decide. 

So the priest walks away, self-flagellating with every step, and Fleabag mopes on the bus bench for a few more minutes. Fleabag—that's her self-described nickname, but He's never thought of her that way. Maybe a bit of a mess, but it's part of her charm. She'll be okay, He knows she will. He slips out of the bushes to cross her path, locking eyes for just a moment, giving her a bit of a surprise, which is also fun, to be quite honest. The priest has no idea it's Him who's been watching behind the fox's eyes all these years, and He wouldn't tell him anyway.

"He went that way," she says.

He knows. If the animal had been able to wink one eye, He might have been tempted to do it. So, He trots on toward the priest, but keeps His attention on her as well. She looks at Him, gives Him a little shake of the head not to follow her as she walks in the opposite direction. With a little wave goodbye, she passes out of sight.

Goodbye? Not bloody likely. He's been with her her whole life. She _also_ has no idea that it's Him she's been giving asides to all these years.

He likes it that way.

* * *

The next few weeks are a little disappointing, and a lot boring. He quite enjoyed following their relationship—its ups and downs and will-they and they-definitely-wills. And now it's over. Perhaps. All because the priest fears that he can't love God and her at the same time.

Rubbish. There are multitudes who have devoted their lives to Him, and when He considers the lot of them, this priest is one of the good ones. Actually cares about people, struggles with questions of morality, looks fantastic in a dress. (A non-trivial point to consider, really.) He's just the kind of devotee God likes—human and not afraid to show it. But above all, the amount of love in his heart is more than enough for both Him and her.

He's been taking note of the priest his whole life, as would be expected by an Omnipotent Presence, through the eyes of his mother, his father, the birds of the air, the flowers in the field. Foxes were an unexpected lark once He saw how the priest was affected by them. A grown man convinced that foxes were following him? True, at least when He was paying a visit. Out to get him? Nah.

Today He is hitching a ride on the wind as the priest stops by the supermarket for a few things. It's a good day for that—she is there. So it's by design. Can one really find fault? It has been a disappointing and boring few weeks, after all.

She sees him before he sees her. "Oh God," she tells Him. 

Here! He calls back cheekily. She doesn't really hear Him, but He starts up the choral _Kyrie_ in her mental soundtrack for good measure. Lord have mercy indeed.

"This is awkward." She's thinking about how many different routes there are between her and the door, and whether she can just leave the entire basket right there on top of the watermelons, but she really quite needs the avocados she's got in there, and that means actually going to the tills. "Bollocks. He couldn't have picked a different shop?"

Absolutely not.

The priest looks in her direction and she ducks down behind the watermelon display, her basket still on top. "This isn't going to work, is it?"

Nope.

In fact, the priest notices the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and wanders toward the produce, brows drawn together in puzzlement. He stops in front of the basket, examines it from all angles. "Hmm," he says.

"Shit," She says to Him. "Shit shit shit."

The priest peers around the corner of the display, and lets out a shout of alarm when he sees her there. She cries out in embarrassed terror right back at him. "Fuck!" the priest says, clutching at his chest. "Oh my God, you startled me."

That was the point.

"I was...I was actually trying to do the opposite." She clambers to her feet, rocking a little on her heels and catching herself on the edge of another display, this one peaches, with one hand. "I should really—"

The priest's hand shoots out to steady her, and there's a long beat where neither of them speak as they both look down at the hand gripping her arm. But the torrent of thoughts tumbles through both of their heads like a waterfall. About the last time he touched her and how fucking unfair his arms are, and a thousand more about what they wish would happen next. But none of that is spoken aloud. Instead, he says, "D'you want...help with that?"

She stifles a laugh. "My one whole basket?"

"Maybe even two." He smiles back. "It's what a friend would do."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he's got her pressed face-first against the wall in the back room of her cafe, rucking up her skirt and ripping the seam out of her knickers with a frantic yank. She gasps out, "Is this what a friend would do, too?"

It's half to Him, and half to him.

Yes! God says, but the priest only groans in relief as his cock springs free of his trousers. He palms her bare arse, strokes each curve as if he hasn't touched a woman in years, and to him it feels like it. It feels like centuries.

Fleabag reacts much the same, closing her eyes and breathing hard at the feel and the closeness, her yearning for him almost overwhelming.

Get on with it! He wants to shout. He'd shake the cans on the shelf to drive the point home that the priest needs to drive his 'point' home, but last time he did that it backfired. They assumed the painting falling off the wall was a warning, rather than His excitement.

So He leaves the shelf be, and settles back to watch.

"You're so wet," he breathes against her ear when his hand strokes down to slip between her folds.

"From the moment I saw you in the supermarket," she confesses.

The priest can't take it any longer, he enters her with a grunt, and her body embraces him, coating his cock. "Oh, _Gooooood_," he groans.

See? I've been trying to tell you how silly it's been to deny yourself this, He says.

Because for the priest it's always been more than sex. He told her he would fall in love with her, and he did, wholeheartedly, because this is what sharing his body means for him. It means sharing everything.

And as he starts to move, she feels it again, the way that he worships her, gives her all of himself for these all too fleeting moments. He slides his fingers forward to play with her clit and she braces her hands against the wall, almost exploding with the intensity of her feelings for him. Where did they come from? Why aren't they 'passing' like he said they would? "Harder," she tells him, and he obliges, the sound of her elbows knocking against the wall getting louder.

There's a jingle from the cafe doors opening. Neither of them hears it, they're so caught up in their pleasure. This is why you needed to get on with it! He says, annoyed. The customer had been ambling along the road, never quite deciding which shop to enter. He could have nudged her to move along to the pub a couple of doors down, but it's that free will thing again. He doesn't like to mess with that.

"Hello?" the woman calls, glancing around the cafe, but blessedly not hearing the rhythmic knocking coming from the back. "Is anyone here? Are you open?"

That's when they hear her. The priest freezes mid-thrust.

"Fuck," Fleabag says, then turns to Him. "I didn't lock the door, did I?"

"That's what we're doing all right," the priest answers, pulling out and straightening himself, "and no, I don't think you did."

"Wha—how did—?" Fleabag tugs down her skirt over her ruined knickers. "I didn't what?"

"Lock the door," he says, directly replying to the aside she only thought He could hear. "We were too busy trying _not_ to tear off each other's clothes. In public, anyway."

God smirks, or He would if He were wearing a mouth right now. The priest is getting better at hearing His voice, it's only natural that he's starting to hear her when she talks to Him as well.

"I, um, well, I'd better go and take care of that, and then, I suppose—" She gives her head a hard shake and just slips out of the door to greet the customer without finishing her thought.

The priest listens to her from the other side of the door, smiling fondly at her clumsy attempts to get the woman to leave. His cock is also extremely aware of the state of her knickers, and how long it might be until she returns. When the woman actually places an order, he can hear her sigh of resignation. There's a back door to the alley, and he slips out of it after sending an apologetic text.

God sets his figurative teeth. Going to have to arrange the next meeting as soon as possible.

* * *

That turns out to be a month later. An actual month. There are lots of reasons, such as active avoidance, a spate of new customers, and a series of funerals, baptisms and weddings to attend to (He's got His hands full, too, with some of these), plus a healthy helping of denial sprinkled on top of the whole thing. But the church bazaar arrives one fine autumn evening, and even though Fleabag doesn't consciously mean to, her path home leads her past the church. 

Her steps stutter to a stop just before crossing the wide doors. She'd been curious about the noise, music and lights before she fully realised the source. "Is this Your fault?" she asks Him.

Guilty! She's become rather intuitive in the last month, ever since the day the priest seemed to hear the words she'd spoken to Him. She'd begun to suspect that He was a direct listener to her seemingly unnoticed asides. Of course, she'd also been wondering if thinking that meant she was going bonkers instead. But whatever the case, it hadn't stopped her talking to Him, or whomever she thought might be listening.

"Fucker," she mutters. And with a deep breath and a nod of courage, she walks into the courtyard and the chaos of the bazaar. Within minutes, she hears a voice call out to her cheerily, "Oh, hello there! Haven't seen you around in a while!"

Fleabag turns, startled. 

It's Pam, smiling broad as you please. "Welcome to our bazaar! Looking to do a little early Christmas shopping?" No trace of Pam's earlier disapproval.

"Oh, it's all different if I'm here to spend a little money, is it?" Fleabag wonders in His direction. To Pam, she says, "Yeah, um, sure. I've got a friend I'd love to give a gift to."

An understatement, to be sure.

"Anything in particular?" Pam asks, the implication mercifully flying over her head.

Fleabag gives a short shake of her head. "I'll know it when I see it."

Pam lets her go with a pat on her arm, and then she's off to greet the next unsuspecting mark, Fleabag thinks. Oh well, that's a bit unfair. Most of the money raised here will go into the church's efforts to help the poor during the winter months, and these small business owners will get a needed boost. But, that's beside the point. He hadn't led Fleabag here to change her heart about local churches' work in their communities, He'd led her here to change one priest's heart about allowing himself some happiness.

She sees him coming out of the church as parishioners flow out from either side. Had there just been a service or something? He's stunning in a green gown with gold accents, talking with a few of them, a mother and her boy. It's a new gown, if she's not mistaken. Not that she got to see all of them during their brief affair, but... She takes slow, careful steps toward him, so as not to surprise him. When she gets close enough, she can hear him as he leans over and tells a young boy, "You'd make a fine server, with your steady hands and your dedication."

The boy beams up at him and his mother smiles beatifically at the praise. Fleabag's never had a smile like that from anyone; it must feel like a laser beam of joy right between the eyes. They thank him and move along. Smiling all the while, he watches them go as they walk in her direction.

And then he sees her, his smile freezing in place, panic in his eyes.

"Oh God, I've blown it," she tells Him. "He _told_ me never to come back here. Can he call down lightning? Is that really a thing?" To the priest, she gives a cheery, apologetic wave. When he doesn't turn and flat-out run, she steels herself with a, "Fuck it, I'm going in."

Attagirl.

She closes the distance, giving him every chance to excuse himself. But he doesn't, frozen in place. When she's only inches away, she murmurs in a low voice, "I could go for some steady hands and dedication." To Him, she adds, "Too strong?" Then to the priest, "I've experienced it first hand." Once again to Him, "Too strong."

But the priest sighs and lets out a laugh. "Hello, again. I've missed that. Even that—" He points out toward where she'd been speaking to Him. "—thing you do."

"Me too. The sheer terror on your face is a real turn on." To Him, she says, "I'm not joking." But then to the priest, "I know you banished me, but how could I pass up supporting the..." She searches comically for anything to land on. "...Kingsbury Food Pantry."

"Ah, so it's noble intent that brought you here." The mirth and desire in his eyes show he knows it's no such thing. "May I direct you to our fine array of crafters or our many games of chance?" He gestures graciously, like a game show host or a used car salesman.

But as he turns, he runs smack into another little boy careering through the crowd, carrying a jam-covered scone. The scone sticks to the front of the robe, hanging there impossibly for several long seconds before dropping with a splat to the ground. 

Perfect timing, kid.

The three stand blinking at it, and then the boy scoops it off the ground and keeps running. "Wait, don't—!" the priest calls, but the boy is lost to the crowd.

"Someone's going to have a tummy ache tomorrow." Fleabag looks at the priest's ruined robe. "Someone else needs a new dress."

"I was just about to change out of this after the blessing anyway. I'll—" He points back toward the rectory and goes, leaving her standing there. 

"No invitation, then?"

God's a little surprised Himself. The priest had been running scenarios of how to get her alone, even amidst all the activity this weekend. Her helping him change would have been a perfect opportunity. But fear had won out over fantasy and now he's considering whether he shouldn't simply lock the door to his room just in case.

God jams the lock.

It's not needed, though, because the priest doesn't even try to turn the deadbolt. He mumbles a series of Hail Marys under his breath as he gets changed, half listening for the click of the door behind him. He imagines he hears the ghost of her footsteps as he removes the soiled chasuble from over his head, the feel of her hands as she pulls the alb off next, and then her hand snaking around to grasp his cock and—

Fleabag is standing in the courtyard of the church still, thinking about what it would be like to follow him in, to surprise him as he comes out in a fresh robe. 'Such a shame if this one got dirty, too," she might say as she pulls it up and—

But she doesn't. In fact, she wonders if she should just turn around and leave. She wants to be with him, but he's told her repeatedly he can't be with her, so why does she keep putting herself through this heartache?

It breaks His heart. Sure, she may not believe in Him, but He doesn't need people to believe to want the best for them.

She decides to make for the exit, avoiding running children and stallholders shouting, tuning out the noise of happy voices all around her. But one voice cuts through, calling her name, and she turns hopefully...

It's Pam. "Didn't find what you were looking for?"

She doesn't bother to hide the disappointment on her face. With a grimace and a short shake of her head, she walks out into the night.

* * *

Six weeks later they've each made a point to stop thinking about the other, convinced that this time, finally, the feelings are really going to pass. The priest throws himself into Advent and Christmas preparations and Fleabag's cafe ends up being the 'Gram-able spot of the year for her neighbourhood. Hilary and Stephanie are the main stars. She'd turn off notifications every time her location is tagged, but honestly? The distraction is a blessing.

God's starting to think that He should just stop meddling.

A couple of days before Christmas, Fleabag gets a call from Godmother, well, Stepmother now. "I think you'd better come down to the Royal Free Hospital right away. It's your father." 

This is not God's meddling, just to be clear. The heart can be a fickle organ, and it's one of His regrets that He hadn't spent longer on prototypes before going ahead with that design.

By the time she gets there, she's had a couple of frantic calls from Claire in Finland asking whether she should come, and making Fleabag promise that she'll keep her updated. She hurries in, asking for her father's ward, but instead of an answer from the nurse she hears from behind her, "They've taken him into surgery."

It's him. The priest. "How?" she asks God.

I'll let him tell you, since he's heard you anyway.

"I was already here," the priest says with an awkward shrug of his shoulders, "giving a parishioner the Last Rites when I heard. I thought I'd stay, in case you—"

"In case my dad needed them, too?" she snaps, angry and gutted and feeling more helpless than ever. 

His eyes go sad. "No. In case you needed me."

"Oh." She nearly sags into his arms. She does need him. She's needed him for weeks.

He leads her to sit in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. And there they sit for hours, holding hands and hardly speaking, while he gently rubs his thumb across the top of her hand. She forgets to call Claire, but she lets the priest answer and tell Claire what's going on when the buzzing gets too insistent. She's not sure she could form a coherent sentence right now, with everything bringing back thoughts of her mum, of Boo, of every way the surgery could possibly go wrong.

God keeps his own touch on her, but it's the priest's touch that she really feels through her haze of worry, and it's enough to keep her from spiralling too far. She drifts off, leaning against his shoulder, too exhausted to stay awake despite the uncomfortable chairs. The priest wars with himself a few minutes about whether he should move her, but in the end he needs this just as much.

"Sweetheart..." she hears someone say an unknown time later. There's a slight shake of her shoulder. "Dear? Your father's out of surgery. He wants to see you."

Time to wake up, God says, giving her a gentle mental shake as well. Reality is much better than the nightmares you were having.

"Huh, what?" She jerks awake, and the priest nearly falls out of his chair. He'd been drowsing, too.

They both look up into the face of Stepmother, whose haggard face is bearing a grateful smile. "He's fine. He's awake and asking for you, dear." She tilts her head to take in the priest's rumpled attire, recalls the way they'd been comforting each other, and a quizzical but knowing flash crosses her face.

That's going to be an interesting conversation later, when all of this is settled.

"You can come, too, if you'd like," she tells the priest.

"Oh, that's not necessa—" he tells Stepmother, pulling away. But Fleabag catches his hand—catches it tight—and he nods and follows them out of the waiting room.

* * *

The priest hangs back a little, not wanting to intrude on the family conversation. Within minutes, Fleabag is shoving Stepmother's iPad at him and he sees Claire's worried face looking out at him. Claire's only response after a polite, "How do you do, Father? Again," is a swirling of her finger in the air for him to turn the screen around toward her father. He doesn't mind. In fact, standing there being a human holster for the iPad gives him something to do other than hang back awkwardly.

They're inviting him into the family, even if only He realises it.

Later, much later, he's walking her home, just the two of them, both dead on their feet. His hand twitches; he wants to reach out for hers so badly. When they reach her flat, he pauses. The last time he was here, everything went to shit. Or maybe the opposite, but it certainly went there afterward. 

There's His cue.

"Maybe I—" the priest starts to say, pulling away, and then stops suddenly, seeing it.

The fox.

It sits on the pavement, blocking his path home, and stares at him. The priest's eyes go wide. "Tell me," he whispers to Fleabag without breaking eye contact with the fox, "are you seeing this?"

"Foxes again?"

He looks at her with panic. "No?"

She laughs despite her tiredness. "Yeah, just taking the piss."

He lets out a shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, I just need to get—" He takes a step backward.

The fox growls, baring its teeth and rising to its feet. The priest freezes. 

"You want to make a run for it?" Fleabag asks.

"What if he's faster?"

"What if he is? What is he going to do, bite you or some—" She thinks for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, that's bad. Maybe we shouldn't run."

"We? No, no, you need to go in and rest. He's after me, anyway." 

"I should have guessed there'd be some excuse," she tells Him, disappointed, and takes a step toward the door.

The fox growls again, louder this time, its hackles rising.

"Oh," she says, coming up short. "So it's both of us now?"

The fox gives her a short yip and settles back down.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I never meant to get you involved in any of this."

"Too late now," she says to both him and the fox. "Too late for either of us."

She's right. It'd been too late from that awkward family dinner at the restaurant when they first met.

"Maybe if we both ran for the door..." she suggests.

"...he could only catch one of us, right?"

Without really planning it, they both take off running at the same time, Fleabag fumbling her keys out and mercifully not dropping them. She shoves the key into the lock and it won't go, it's upside down, how has she managed to open this fucking thing when she's full-on pissed but not now? "Oh my _God_, why is this not working?"

There's no need to rush, He tells her.

"Hey, look," the priest says gently, tapping her shoulder. She turns to see the fox, sitting placidly where they'd left him, licking one paw.

"Huh," she says, dropping her faulty key from the lock and taking a step away from the door. The fox drops his paw and gives her a warning bark. "Really." She turns to the priest. "Think we've got to go in... together?"

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, the priest is thrusting his way to climax, and the biggest one Fleabag has had in months is about to follow on its heels. "Bet you saw this coming, eh?" she says to Him between pants.

Pretty much from the beginning.

The priest adds, "Who are we to argue with a fox?" 

They fall asleep immediately after, the stress of the day and the relief over being in each other's arms again too overwhelming to function a minute more. Conversations about what happens next can come later, when they're both rested and clear-headed.

It's okay. They'll work it out, He's certain of it—call it Divine Intuition.


End file.
